


Burning on Empty

by PrinceSnarking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceSnarking/pseuds/PrinceSnarking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can Lestrade do but be the moth that stands no chance against such a supreme light?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning on Empty

The first time it happens, Lestrade knows he should walk away. Walk away and pretend that his attraction for the strung out cocaine addict isn’t consuming him, hasn’t become his light in the dark. But the wife is away, it has been six months since the last time they had any sort of sexual interaction, and dear God, those lips are taunting him. It doesn’t matter that the words that follow are insults, jabs and belittling gestures. The pale skin of the genius, barely shown underneath his layers, tempting Lestrade, as though begging for the man to touch and worship with his lips, fingertips  brushing against the cool, soft exterior.

When their lips touch, Greg can’t hold in his desire. His hands roam across the man’s lithe form, feeling skin, prominent hip bones and a concave stomach. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t be considered a stereotypical beauty, but dear God, did Greg want this, to feel that skin warm beneath his hands, to touch and be touched, to hear the sighs and soft moans emitted from the genius, his genius, his weekend lover.

The feel of having him beneath him, to be completely inside him, it consumed him. He couldn’t place exactly when this became normal, regular, but it did, and soon, all he thought about was getting alone with Sherlock again. Sherlock consumes him, like a fire, drawing him in, basking him in the warmth, and burning him alive with the intensity that is Sherlock Holmes. And what can Lestrade do but be the moth that stands no chance against such a supreme light?

But like all lights that burn too brightly, his beacon doesn’t dim, doesn’t dwindle. It merely extinguishes itself with no warning, crashing to the ground and breaking into many pieces, torn apart at the seams, like a lightbulb hitting the harsh cement.

And his world goes dark again.


End file.
